


Making the grade

by huntingosprey



Series: Crouching motorbike, hidden Datsun [3]
Category: Transformers Generation One
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-23
Updated: 2012-05-23
Packaged: 2017-11-05 21:46:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/411339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/huntingosprey/pseuds/huntingosprey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even most iron control can break sometimes and everyone has a limit to what they are willing to endure</p>
            </blockquote>





	Making the grade

Prowl’s fingers dug into the flat top of the rocky pinnacle and he hauled himself over the edge. The last stars were fading in the dawn light as he surveyed his chosen retreat; a long way from the Ark, in an uninhabited desert with only a few tall rocky spires like this one to break up the monotony of the flat plain. This was the largest and the tallest in the area, offering him an unbroken view to all sides. No one could sneak up on him here.

Turning his back on the sunrise, he dropped the large bag that had made the trip up here slung over his back to the ground and considered his next course of action. By now someone would have noticed his absence, Prime would have been told and they were most certainly using Teletraan to scan for him. A hard and bitter smile folded his lips upwards. Red was about to learn that not only did Prowl know where the tracker embedded in him was but also how to remove it without tripping any of the routines that warned the system about unauthorised tampering. They’d find both tracker and note on his recharge pad. What happened then, Prowl shrugged mentally, well, he’d deal with it when it happened.

The thought of the rest of the Autobots threatened his precarious control; did they really consider him such a necessary liability on the battlefield? Or so oblivious to think he didn’t hear them talking behind his wings about how such and such a mech had ‘rescued’ him from the attentions of this or that Decepticon? It made his coolant boil. He was more dangerous in close combat than most of the rest of the army and yet they persisted in this mistaken belief that he was physically incapable. An asset to be dragged out to each conflict simply to play with mechs lives like war was a living game of chess. With an effort Prowl wrenched his thoughts out of the destructive cycle and focused on the here and now.

Shelter, that was the first need. While the desert was cold in the dawn, by early afternoon the temperature would be too hot for him to endure. Opening the bag he withdrew a lightweight assembly of poles and slotted them together. Over that went a sensor-blocking tarp, which he first smeared liberally with dust and dirt from the ground so that it blended in visually. Tying the tarp to the poles so it wouldn’t blow away, he drove the holding spike into the ground towards one side of the small plateau. With that task accomplished he withdrew a small solar powered energon converter and laid it out on the least sheltered part of the spire top. With shelter and food taken care of, he turned his attention to the remaining contents of his bag; an emergency beacon was tossed into one corner of the tent. With an almost reverent care two flat boxes were laid along the short side of the tent, one long and one short, they were very plain but their contents, to him at least, was worth more than Cybertron itself. A tripod and disc arrangement was carefully set up towards the middle of the shelter and a long-lasting heat cell placed under the horizontal disc, a small squat box was set beside it. A first aid kit was placed at the back of the tent and then Prowl went down on both knees and looked at the last item in his bag. 

It had been many, many vorn since he’d taken it out of it’s protective box and many thousands of vorn since he’d knelt in the temple before his peers and teachers and been judged worthy of it. Slowly, respectfully, mindful of all it stood for, of what it said about him, he reached in with both hands. grasped it gently and lifted it up. Sitting back on his heels with his arms bent into right angles he studied it intently. The wide, deep purple, flexible metallic band showed no sign of it age, it’s edge was just as sharp as it had been the first breem he’d held it, the silver characters inscribed on it shone as brightly as they had then. It called to him; it spoke of a simpler, more desirable past, where all his skills were recognised, where he was respected not just for his mental skills and cunning but also for his physical abilities in and out of battle. 

Reluctantly, he put it down on top of the shorter box; he wasn’t worthy of it yet. Anger and resentment still ruled his spark; his mind was in chaos, his vision clouded. He had no focus or discipline. Time to remedy all of that. He would not leave this place until he was worthy of the belt. Stepping out into the dawn, he stopped in the approximate centre of his self chosen prison, drawing his focus inwards, he centred his body, appalled at how badly he now habitually stood. Slowly, with great precision, he corrected all the flaws in his posture, loosening joints held stiff, widening his stance, swaying backwards so his spine was over his feet, dropping his centre of gravity down into the rock below him, grounding himself. Deeping and regulating the flow of air through his intakes, slowing the beat of his energon pump, reconnecting consciously with every part of his body.

This basic and simple set of actions, ones he had once done as a matter of course every day of his life, began the process of healing; their familiarity drew him away from the now and into himself and paradoxically, out of himself. He was aware of the faint breath of wind that caressed his cheek, of the dry smell it carried with it, the promise of a fine clear day to come. He heard the faint cry of birds on the wing and the mournful howl of a wolf, the very rock beneath him felt alive. The power of life itself beat upon him unceasingly, overwhelmingly but gently folding him into its embrace, connecting him to all of creation. Without being aware of it, he began to move slowly. Hesitantly his feet shifted, knees bent and flexed arms drifted lightly through the air as he progressed from one technique to another in the basic mediation kata, each move becoming more fluid and natural than the last. On reaching the end of the sequence he flowed into a more advanced variation and shifted again into a different form without pause.

The burning heat of midday brought him back to an appreciation of reality. Stretching each joint and servo slowly to avoid injury, he withdrew to the shade of his tent. A deep weariness settled over him; the last week at the Ark had taken its emotional toll and deprived him of recharge. Added to that the long recklessly fast drive he’d undertaken last night to get here and the morning’s work out, he was physically exhausted. Laying himself down on the ground, he drifted into a deep recharge cycle.

He came back online in the cool of early evening, the warmth radiating from the rock helping to loosen joints gone stiff and gears that had seized up as he recharged. It had truly been to long since he’d done even this small amount of practising. Flexing and moving each joint, he walked over to the energon converter. After all day in the burning sun it had converted enough heat into energon to supply him with a full cube of mid grade. He sat down carefully on the edge of the spire and let his legs swing freely over the hundred and fifty-meter drop as his optics roamed over the landscape. He wondered at the wild, rugged, free look and feel of this part of the desert, Cybertron had never looked this untamed; order was stamped through even its wildest parts. Earth brimmed with possibilities, good and bad. Time for humans ran so quickly, most lived barely a vorn and yet, in that time, they packed in so much experience, so much life, it made his CPU spin trying to comprehend it. Idly he wondered how much panic and confusion his disappearance must now be causing the Ark. A surge of bitterness swept through him; by now every mech who could be spared would be roaming the roads and skies, looking for their ‘poor, helpless’ tactician. Cycling a full chamber of air he pushed them back out of his thoughts, climbed to his feet and returning the empty cube to its slot in the dispenser, he walked back to the spot he had occupied that morning. In the fading light he began to move through the most basic forms, blocks and redirections, avoidance and retreat techniques. Patterns that any student of half a vorns standing would have been able to do without thinking he moved slowly through, critically evaluating each stance and transition, noting where he’d fallen away from the pure form and ruthlessly correcting himself. 

The sun sank and the night closed in swiftly. When he surfaced it was cold and the stars burned brightly in the sky. He performed the traditional ending form, part salute and thanks to Primus for a day finished and part release of tension and then gazed up at the stars. From down here they looked so far away and remote he wondered if he would ever travel amongst them again. Irritated at himself for the ease with which his thoughts lost focus he withdrew to the tent, pulling down the front flap, shutting out the view. Sinking down into a meditation pose he ignited the heat cell under the metal tripod and opened the box beside it. Fingers searched through the bottles inside until they found the one he was looking for. A few drops of its contents splashed onto the metal plate and he shut the box and offlined his optics, composing himself for meditation. The sharp smell rising from the gently heating disc provided him with a focus point; he slowed his air intake and energon pump considerably, turning his mind inwards. 

The sharp, warm smell reminded him of Jazz- quick, clever, flash-fire Jazz. Likeable, charming, warm sparked, innocent Jazz. The mech who hid under that act was swift, ruthless, focused and broken, one of only two mechs who knew he wasn’t helpless in a fight. Who, right now, was probably leading all the rest in a merry dance further and further away from where he thought the tactician might be. Jazz would understand his need for this period of solitude.

He turned his thoughts to the meditation exercise and began to work through his anger and bitterness, calling to mind each mech in turn he examined their relationship, considered the good and the bad things and let his feelings settle before moving on. The night passed in this manner and he became aware of his surroundings as the sun climbed above the horizon once more. Rising, he walked out into the sun and again began to work on his physical forms. The days developed a pattern- mornings where spent in slow, inwardly focused forms that taught control, focus and discipline. He recharged during the heat of the day and spent the evenings in the practise of the more aggressive, outward forms of defence and counter attack. Nights were his time of meditation and contemplation. Slowly he worked through the levels, both mentally and physically, resolving more and more of his anger and frustration at the occupants of the Ark and building up his physical stamina and skills towards the level he was aiming for.

He lost track of time, its measurement simply ceased to have any relevance to him, so he couldn’t say how long he’d been there when he was finally found. He came to the end of the orbiting hands technique to find himself staring Blitzwing in the chest, with Astrotrain smirking on the other side of him.

“Well, well, what have we here?” Blitzwing sneered down at him “A poor little Autobot all on his lonesome.”

“Did your friends throw you out?” Astrotrain jeered “Don’t worry; we’ll play with you, won’t we?”

The unpleasant smiles on both faces and the cracking of finger joints was obviously meant to be intimidating but Prowl gave no reaction; he simply waited, every sense alert watching for the right time to move. Annoyed at the lack of response, Blitzwing lunged forward at him. Prowl cross-stepped backwards, spinning out of the way, causing the big triplechanger to collide with his accomplice. When they had regained their footing both Decepticons glared at him and moved to trap him between them. Astrotrain came in fast from his left while Blitzwing blocked his back and right plains of movement. Prowl deflected the blow with an upward circling arm, caught the other mechs wrist and stepped under the outstretched arm. His attack disrupted, Astrotrain tried to turn and go after Prowl but found that the tactician hadn’t let go of his wrist and was twisting it in a direction it didn’t really want to go in. So he twisted awkwardly the other way, putting him off balance. As Blitzwing came to help by trying to grab Prowl the Datsun simply spun, pulling Astrotrain into the charging tank, sending them both sprawling in the dirt. 

Astrotrain was the first on his feet and in his anger, outright intimidation took the place of subtle attacks; he swung his fists in a fusillade of blows expanding large amounts of energy in the process. Prowl weaved and dodged employing simple blocks to keep the blows he couldn’t avoid from harming him. Astrotrain finally slowed his onslaught and Prowl grabbed a passing wrist, spun inside the other mechs guard and effortlessly tossed him over the edge of the cliff.

Blitzwing managed in that moment to get both arms wrapped securely around Prowl’s arms and waist, lifting him off the ground. Prowl swept his door wings forward and then back towards the Decepticons face, causing him to jerk backwards and loosen his grip. Prowl spread his arms wide, breaking the grip and dropping gracefully to the floor. Spinning, he extended a leg, sweeping the larger mech off his feet, onto his back. As the tank regained his feet, Prowl heard the faint but unmistakable sound of a high performance engine. Astrotrain had obviously transformed into his shuttle mode and was sweeping in for another shot at him. Settling into a stance, Prowl apparently ignored the incoming shuttle and as Blitzwing charged forwards. Prowl employed a somewhat dubious technique that would have had a few optic ridges raised in disapproval back at the temple; he bodily blocked the forward momentum of the larger mech, transferring much of the Decepticon’s forward momentum to him, throwing himself into a backwards flip that left Blitzwing facing the speeding nosecone of Astrotrain. Dropping down into a crouch, Prowl watched as the shuttle desperately tried to slow down and avoid the collision by transforming into robot mode, unfortunately he was going to fast and the force of their coming together knocked both mechs offline.

Shaking his head, Prowl was about to resume his interrupted form when the sound of another large airborne craft reached him. Looking up he saw Skyfire circling his rock. Motioning for the jet to land, Prowl knew his isolation was ended. 

“Prowl, are you hurt?” Skyfire asked as he shut down his engines.

“No,” the Datsun replied “not even scuffed paint work.”

“Nothing?” the jet asked incredulously “but both of them are twice your size Prowl, and although that was a nice piece of work I don’t believe you came away unhurt.”

“Why?” Prowl demanded

“Well, because” Skyfire stuttered to a stop. Looking closely at the tactician he could indeed see no signs of any damage.

Prowl kept the other mech fixed with a level gaze, waiting for the anger to rise. It didn’t. For the first time he began to think that he might just have re-earned the belt.

“You’ve been missing for two weeks,” Skyfire told him “everyone but Jazz and Trailbreaker has been going crazy about it.”

Prowl raised an optic ridge in invitation to continue.

“All they’ll say is that they pity anyone who comes across you now.” Skyfire’s voice swung upwards making the sentence a question.

In response, Prowl retreated into the tent and gently picked up the purple belt. It felt right in his hands now. The days of concentration and meditation had cleared and reordered his mind and the physical work had burned away his anger and resentment. Passing the belt around his waist and tying the traditional knot to fasten it, Prowl walked back out to meet the confused jet. Skyfire’s optics widened as he saw the belt and realised what it meant.

“Oh, um, sorry?” Skyfire offered, “I, uh, didn’t know.”

“There are few people who do.” Prowl replied “Although many should remember, before the war began I held the record as the longest reigning Cybertronian Diffusion champion.”

“Umm, you’re really peeved at us for thinking you’re helpless aren’t you?” Skyfire asked quietly.

“I was,” was the Datsun’s honest response “but I came here to work things through and I’m now ready to go home.”

A relieved smile crossed Skyfire’s face and the tension that had been rolling off him subsided as he watched the tactician pack the few belongings back into the bag. Soon the only evidence that anyone had been there were two offline Decepticons and some scuffmarks.


End file.
